RASHID: HER RUTHLESS BOSS: 50 Loving States, Hawaii

by Taylor, Theodora

  “Yeah, but he’s super rich, right? And he’s got that commando vampire bodyguard. If you told him what was going on—”

  “If I told him, he’d try to fix this and make me stay,” I interrupt, throwing everything I can find into Albie’s duffel. “And then they’d hurt him or worse because one bodyguard isn’t going to be enough to battle zealots who don’t care about how much money he has.”

  “Well, he’s got enough money he could hire a fleet of bodyguards if he wanted to. Or move somewhere else to be with you. They’re not going to follow you all the way back to Jahwar, right?”

  “Or instead of asking a man I’ve only known intimately for six weeks to move away from his world-class therapist and the work he’s doing in his lab, I could just go.”

  Shaking my head I repeat the conclusion I came to before deciding to break up with Rashid in such a harsh way, he wouldn’t give chase. “When you take pride and emotion out of it, me going and staying away is the only option that makes sense. It’s also the only sure way to keep him safe.”

  “But…” Jazz starts to argue.

  “But nothing, Jazz! It was stupid and delusional for me to come back here. Whatever feelings I have for him, whatever feelings he has for me…” My heart cracks as I conclude, “They’re not worth his life or safety. I have to…I have to do as they say. I’ve got to leave.”

  I zip up the duffel, but Jazz grabs my arm. “Wait, Mika, just listen to me. I know someone. Someone who can help.”

  “Who?” I ask, viciously turning on her. “That Chinese triad guy who loaned you the money for Dad’s medicine and is now paying for your apartment?”

  The accusation is just a guess. A suspicion I’ve been carrying around in the back of my head for a while now. But when Jazz drops my arm, her expression morphing to shock, I know my guess about her mysterious client was right.

  “No, thank you.” I turn back to packing up the rest of Albie’s things. “People like him are why I’m in this mess in the first place. The reason my life was ruined. I can’t even believe you would get involved with somebody like that.”

  Jazz’s face goes from shocked to angry in a flash. “You can’t believe? Somebody had to stay behind in Hawaii. Somebody had to take care of Dad and protect her family. Some of us can’t choose to just run off like you!”

  A tight and painful band wraps around my chest at her words. “You think this is me just running off?” I yell back at her. “You think these are the choices I want to make? Either stay here and risk Rashid’s life or go back to Connecticut and be alone forever because I can’t imagine ever feeling about anybody in sixty years, the way I’ve come to feel about Rashid in six weeks? I don’t want to leave, but I have to. For everyone’s sake.”

  A male counselor appears in the doorway before Jazz can answer. “What’s going on here?” he asks my sister with a frown. “Is she trying to check Albie out early? She can’t do that.”

  “Oh yes, I can!” I answer.

  Zipping up the duffel and shouldering it, I run back to the shoreline, just as Albie is surfing in. Thank God.

  “Mom! What are you doing here?” he asks, when I run down the beach toward him. “Did you see me? That’s the biggest wave I’ve ever surfed! Please tell me you got a video of that. Or at least a picture!”

  The look of pure joy disappears, however, when he sees me, really sees me. Standing on the shore in the pajamas I threw on this morning and breathing hard.

  “Mom? What’s wrong?” he asks. “And why do you have my duffel bag?”

  RASHID

  A few hours after Mika leaves, a knock sounds on the door of my darkened room.

  I don’t answer.

  “Your Excellency, are you in there?” Faizan asks on the other side of the closed wood. “Torture contacted me and he sounded…concerned. It would seem the six weeks with Mika did not go according to plan?”

  I don’t answer.

  Which Faizan takes as an answer in itself. “I am sorry,” he says. “I know you had high expectations of this time with her, This must be very painful for you.”

  High expectations…If I were capable of laughing, I would have done it then. At myself.

  She had made me want things over the last six weeks. Intimacy. Laughter. Children who would outlive me. A new beginning. Things I never would have thought I could long for before she walked into my room and blinded me with her light. But then…

  ROBOT.

  The fact that she left me with so little explanation proves how delusional I’d been all along.

  This time I answer. “Faizan, I need you to do something for me.”

  “Yes, Your Excellency. Anything.” Despite having come off his vacation early, Faizan sounds eager to please.

  “Go to the store and buy a bottle of whiskey for me. The best you can find.”

  A hesitant pause. Most likely because I haven’t touched alcohol since leaving Jahwar. I used to think I didn’t deserve anything to dull the pain, but now with my permanent decision to stay in this life, it’s all I have.

  In the end, Faizan says, “Of course, Your Excellency. I will go now and bring a glass of this whiskey to your room when I return.”

  A few days ago, I let Waseela go with a year’s severance, and I’d been thinking of making the same offer to Faizan when he returned. Being with Mika had made me feel like I could do anything. Live independently without servants. Make my own meals again. Get Future Legs fully funded. Return to a version of the man I’d wanted to become before Jahwar. But now…

  “Faizan, don’t just bring me a glass…bring me the entire bottle.”

  Another hesitation. Then: “Of course, Your Excellency. Right away.”

  As his footsteps receded away from the doorway, I close my eyes. But sun-tinted memories of sex and friendship loop in my head, the hopes, and dreams all brought to ruin by one post-it note. ROBOT.

  I’ve found out over the last two days that the promise I made stuck. I will remain in this life to honor Aisha, no matter how unbearable it becomes. But the pain…I need that bottle of whiskey to make it stop.

  I wait there in the dark for the bittersweet relief, though I already know a bottle of whiskey won’t be enough to remove the memories from my head.

  28

  MIKA

  To say Albie was not happy about my decision to return to Connecticut a month early is an understatement.

  He screamed at me all the way to the airport, then collapsed into guttural sobs when our last-minute flights to Bradley Airport took off.

  We got dirty looks from the other passengers, but I couldn’t bring myself to reprimand him. All my fault…this was all my fault.

  But we’re safe in Connecticut now. Here, neither of us will get hurt, or accidentally get somebody else hurt. I understand that even if he doesn’t.

  It takes him four weeks to start really talking to me again, and I think he only breaks the silence because school’s about to start. Even then I get Connecticut Albie, not Hawaii Albie. And he complains about everything as I drive to drop him and Wes off at school. From the dumb brick houses to the stupid trees.

  “Back in Hawaii, I don’t ever have allergies,” he informs Wes as I pull into the drop-off line. “Here my nose is always running and I’m just sneezing all over the place. In Hawaii—”

  Suddenly I can’t take it anymore. “Well, we’re not in Hawaii, we’re here in Connecticut where we’re safe and where my job is. The job that pays for everything you’re always complaining about, you ungrateful little…”

  I stop just short of calling him out of his name and get myself together enough to say, “Albie…I’m sorry.”

  Too late. “We never fight in Hawaii!” he yells at me, before shoving the back door open.

  I hit the brakes. “Albie, it’s not our turn in line yet.”

  He jumps out of the car anyway before the sentence is fully out of my mouth.

  “At least it’s not me this time,” Wes says, holding up his hands in the wake o
f my son’s pissed off departure. Yes, drop-off line temper tantrums used to be Wes’s thing before two years of steady therapy and happy family life helped him learn to better regulate his emotions.

  And proving how far he’s come, he actually asks for permission to follow Albie out the back door early. “Can I…”

  “Sure,” I answer, pasting on a bright tone. Pretending to be happy.

  I didn’t have to pretend to be happy in Hawaii.

  But I’m not a little boy. I push those thoughts away and pull out of the drop-off line, refocusing on the present. Instead of obsessing about the past.

  For a while, it works. The texts stop after I return, and soon months go by without me receiving even one.

  This confirms I did the right thing, even if Albie doesn’t agree. And though he becomes crabbier and crabbier as the months get colder.

  Sadly, in October, the relief of not receiving any more Bible verse whore texts is overshadowed by Sylvie’s announcement that she and Holt have decided to let me go.

  “Just so you know, this has nothing to do with your performance. You’ve have been great with the kids and such a blessing to our family,” Sylvie tells me after inviting me into her kitchen office to talk. “But Barron is off in Portland now and Wes does not need so much supervision afterschool. Also, I believe in the social benefits of daycare for Lydia…”

  She dips her head shyly. “So much so that I’ve decided to start one of my own, focusing on the whole child experience as well as providing special counseling services for kids like Wes.”

  That brings some joy into the otherwise disappointing conversation. “Seriously? That’s awesome news!”

  “I’m glad you think so. I would like to offer you a position there as soon as we open. But, of course, that will take a while. Until then, I am sure you will have no problem finding another family. So many of the other mothers have asked me about where I found you over the years.”

  I’m grateful for the offer and for the fact that I have until the end of the year to find a new job and a new place to live. And yes, I have a whole list of contacts who asked me to call them if I ever became available.

  But what are the chances that I’ll find something like what I have here? A well-paying nanny position with a family I truly like, that also pays for my room and board and has a big brother substitute who likes hanging out with my grumpy son? It feels like I’m losing everything and headed into a future of settling for things I don’t want. This opposite of a new beginning.

  “I haven’t contacted Stone and Keane yet, because when I do, I would like to have good news of my own. I would like to tell them I’ve met someone. Someone I want to make a new beginning with, have children who we’ll raise with love and laughter, and of course, start our own family Instagram account. Until I can do that, I am remaining silent.”

  That impossible dream Rashid pitched floats right back into the front of my mind. Like it never went away, just drifted off somewhere I couldn’t see. God, why won’t it die?

  “You okay?” Sylvie asks.

  No, Sylvie, I’m not okay. I’m doing what I must to keep us safe. But it feels like everything’s falling apart.

  With some effort, I paste the Mika smile back on, ten times as false. “I’m great, Sylvie. And so happy for you. No worries. Seriously, no worries at all.”

  No worries at all. There are no Bible verse whore calls in November either, and I’m in talks with a soon-to-be purposefully single executive mom Sylvie’s best friend Prin hooked me up with. Albie and I would be living in her Manhattan condo, which means another move. Also, we’d have to share a room.

  “But how exciting would it be to live in the city?” I ask the weekend before Thanksgiving. I’m cleaning up around him in the living room since he’s got a surfing game going on Wes’s old VR system.

  “Manhattan doesn’t have surfing either,” Albie points out behind the VR headset.

  I’m so desperate for any kind of buy-in from him, I say, “How about California? I could look for a job there.”

  “Nanh. Aunt Jazz’s boyfriend said the ocean’s so cold there, you have to wear wetsuits, like, all year?”

  I hold up my hand. “Wait, Aunt Jazz has a boyfriend? Who you met? When did all this happen?”

  “She said he wasn’t her boyfriend. But…” Albie shifts back and forth on his unseen virtual wave. “I know he was. He came to the camp to pick her up once, and he looked at her like Mr. Rashid.”

  I lower the laundry basket of sundry items I’ve picked up from the living room. “What do you mean like Mr. Rashid?”

  “You know, like how Mr. Rashid was looking at you whenever you wasn’t looking at him. Like a boyfriend. I mean, at least before you two broke up and I had to come back to stupid Connecticut where you can only surf in VR.”

  I stare at my son, anger and sadness raging inside of me. But what can I do? Blast him for his presumption? Take away his gaming privileges for guessing there was something going on between Rashid and me? Cry behind his back because neither of us is living the life we truly want?

  I end up running off to my bedroom, hyperventilating too hard to cry. I know I made the right decision. I know that staying apart is the simplest and best way to keep Rashid safe. But it feels like I’ve destroyed my life and ruined any chance I had of future happiness.

  I wait for my inner drill sergeant to agree, to tell me, “Get it together, Hayes.”

  But she never speaks up.

  It feels like she’s broken.

  Eventually the panicked feeling subsides, and I calm down enough to make a trip to the grocery store to buy everything I’ll need for sweet potato pie, Albie’s and my contribution to our last Thanksgiving dinner with the Calson family.

  I’m surprised when my phone lights up with Jazz’s name as I’m walking back to the car, an old Toyota that’s seen better days—yet another reason to take the job in New York, by the way. I won’t need it.

  “Albie and I were just talking about you!” I tell her, answering the phone with a laugh. But I don’t say why. Our conversations have been strained ever since I dragged Albie out of summer camp. Better not to exacerbate the tension by bringing up the Chinese mafia guy who Albie called her boyfriend, I decide.

  “Hey, sis, so you’re for sure not getting any more of those Bible verse calls, right?” she asks.

  “Right,” I answer, immediately alarmed. “Why are you asking? Are they harassing you now?”

  “No, no…it’s just…okay, don’t be mad, but after the Lacerdas ran you off, I kind of asked Han to help me deal with them.”

  “Who’s Han?”

  “The…uh…client you mentioned before.” I can almost hear Jazz wincing through the phone. “The one I said could possibly solve your police family problem.”

  “What?” I say, my voice cracking with outrage. “I left town because of crooked police officers, and you somehow thought adding sex trafficking criminals to the situation would solve the problem?”

  “Han’s outfit doesn’t do that anymore, that was his father’s regime. And it did solve the problem. Sort of,” Jazz answers, her tone defensive. “He…ah…talked to them, and you stopped getting calls. But now he thinks there’s something fishy going on. They’ve been tracking the Lacerda family for another thing, and something weird came up when they went through their financials and online records. Han’s guys couldn’t find records of any of them paying for dummy numbers. Online or off.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask, shaking my head as I shoulder my tote bag of groceries and deposit the cart.

  “It means the Lacerda brothers were definitely the ones who beat up Leon, and they’re obviously willing to abuse their powers. But Han says he doesn’t think any of Alberto’s family members are behind those texts.”

  I stop at my car, not understanding. “Who else would be sending me messages like that?”

  “My question exactly. That’s why I’m calling you. Han is having another… um… conversation wit
h Paco and Wade right now, but do you have any idea who else would want to threaten you? Leon possibly? This could be some weird, circular bitter move. Maybe Han should have a conversation with him.”

  I immediately shake my head, rejecting that idea. “No, he’s just trying to live his life. And he’s married now, why would he bother with harassing and threatening me?”

  “Because creepy stalkers be stalking, not being grateful for what they already have,” Jazz answers, her voice set on “okurr?!”

  I’m suddenly too cold for reasons that don’t have anything to do with the snow flurrying down above me.

  I climb into the car and turn the key in the ignition, as I say, “Jazz, I think you’re wrong. And the messages have stopped. Please don’t drag Leon back into this. I don’t want him or anyone else to get hurt because of me. This is all my fault! The girls in the crate, Leon, Rashid—it’s all my fault!”

  I don’t realize I’m crying until Jazz says, “Oh, sis, don’t cry.”

  But now that I’ve started, I can’t stop. “I was unwrapping presents while those girls were starving in a crate. If I hadn’t turned a blind eye to Alberto’s weird behavior, if I hadn’t started up with Leon, or fallen for Rashid…”

  “None of that is your fault,” Jazz insists, and her voice sounds a little haunted as she says, “These bad guys are big and powerful, and we’re just trying to surf the waves they throw at us as best we can.”

  “Jazz, are you talking about me or yourself?” I ask through my tears, honestly wanting to know.

  “I’m…” Jazz falters. But then resets with “Sis, you’ve got to forgive yourself. You’ve got to start believing you deserve better than this. I mean, wouldn’t you tell me the exact same thing if I was blubbering all over the other end of this call?”

  I let out a watery laugh. “Yes. And you know what? I didn’t know how much I needed to hear that until you said it out loud.”

  “Then take your own advice that your little sister is giving you!” Jazz advises with a soft laugh.